


we will (punk) rock you

by backofthefront



Category: New X-Men: Academy X, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types, Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Canon Bisexual Character, M/M, Props to you if catch the illusions to other charavters, this is grabage i am garbage we all are garbage because youre the one reading this right now, trans quentin quire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5690080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backofthefront/pseuds/backofthefront
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Quentin Quire fronts a punk band. That's all there is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we will (punk) rock you

 

Quentin Quire was, in a way, a stage name. It was Quire’s real name, but he had picked it for himself, a specially chosen new title to go with the presentation of his body- that had been years ago, now, of course. The real alias here was not his name, birth-given or no. No, that would be Kid Omega. That’s who was up on the stage now, flanked by the rest of the members of famous, or perhaps infamous, punk band the Omega Gang. 

 

He was all lean muscle, hunching over the microphone. His body visibly quaked with an angry, pent-up fire all-too-familiar to Tommy. Quire, or, currently, Kid Omega- an apt alias, pondered Tommy, as he still managed to harbor that teenage-anarchist vibe even in his mid-twenties- was a stereotypical picture of the punk scene, but it went deeper than that. It was more than an outfit or a persona, this was in his veins. His lurid pink mohawk, the aspect of his general appearance that seemed to most offend concerned suburban mothers and conservative Christian fathers, danced like fire, kissing his scalp with flame; his face was illuminated with energetic rage. Quire gripped the microphone like he was trying to choke the life from it’s throat, lips centimeters away as he growled obscenities into the mic. 

 

The bassist, a girl with a large afro who wore little more than a midriff top and fishnets with her knee-high leather boots, ripped into a chord as Quentin thrashed backwards, as if reeling from the mic. The raw energy of the band washed over Tommy in tangible waves, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to vibrate with the force of the music, moving like he always did, or remain still, almost encased in stone, in awe of the group of now not-so-juvenile delinquents that had so captivated the rest of the room. 

 

There was a break in vocals as the song faded out in a blaze of bass and guitar and drums pounding louder than Tommy’s beating heart, and Quentin loitered in the center of the stage, the mic loosely gripped in one hand at his side. He wore combat boots, a staple of the punk scene, and black jeans that, if Tommy knew anything about the vocalist at all, had not been purchased with the holes pre-installed. Quire was known for his white shirts with often obscene or controversial slogans scrawled on them in red sharpie. This gig, it read in big, angry script: Fuck your gender rolls, with a small cartoon of a frowning dinner roll underneath the text. 

 

When Quire ran a hand through his disheveled hair, wiping sweat off his brow, Tommy had a sudden and inexplicable urge to do the same to the brightly-colored punk. 

 

As the next song started, the penultimate one, if the set list were to be believed, Quire raised the mic to his lips and a muted cheer surged through the tired, persistent crowd. 

 

“Be careful kids, dont’cha know punk is for queers and’ll give you mutant mind control powers?” The tone of his voice did certain things to certain parts of Tommy’s body. He smirked as the crowd half-laughed, half-cheered, and Quire launched into the next song. 

 

It was one of the band’s greatest hits from this album, called Dark Phoenix, and despite the guttural tone of the vocals, Tommy knew all of the words. It seemed to capture every moment in his life, every emotion he had ever felt, and Quire practically bit down on the mic, almost unmoving save for his lips, singing for three minutes with a masturbatory intensity. 

 

Despite this being arguably the band’s slowest and easiest song vocally, when it finished Tommy thought he could detect the faintest crack in the unbreakable, or perhaps untouchable-yet-perpetually-broken persona, and Quire let out a tiny, tired sigh. It was a hard song, emotionally, for him.

 

The last song dealt primarily with politics, and Tommy only half-listened, instead watching the movement of Quire’s lips as he finished the show to a deafening round of applause. there would have been a standing ovation, in all likelihood, but the venue was standing-room only, and as a result everyone was already on their feet, thrumming with energy. 

  
  


They didn’t perform an encore- they probably would have, but another band began moving their equipment on stage, so the Omega Gang wandered off to different parts of the building. Some mingled with fans- Tommy distinctly saw the bassist, Idie something, kick a handsy fan where the sun didn’t shine. His friends cackled, congratulating her, high-fiving around in a circle with a healthy appreciation for the fierce femme. Clearly, the performers were self-sufficient when it came to defense. Most of the gritty punk bands that played underground gigs like this were, which explained the lack of security or bodyguards, which was fortunate, given the copious amounts of drugs circulating the crowd and performers themselves, not to mention a few fistfights that quickly resolved themselves. 

 

After people-watching for a few minutes, Tommy scanned the room for a drink, or a joint, or something. None of it had much of an effect on him, but he loved the scene, the vibes, the energy of the other people was the thing he got high off of. 

 

He wandered over to the bar, which was less packed than he expected, probably given all the smuggled booze. The bartender, a tall, voluptuous blonde wearing a black midriff shirt, drummed the pointed bloodred nails of one hand on the counter as the other hand clutched a half-empty bottle of absolut vodka. 

 

She was leering, predatory, at a man with a pink mohawk, who was slumped over, elbows on the counter. Tommy did a double-take, realizing it was Quentin himself. As he walked over, he managed to pin the woman’s accent down as Russian. “I vould crush you, leetle boy,” she said, laughing; clearly this was friendly banter for her. 

 

Quire laughed, throwing his head back, pushing his taped-up black glasses up his beaky nose. 

Tommy sat on the stool next to where Quire was perched, partially because he wanted a drink, partially because he wanted to talk to Quire. 

 

The bartender turned to Tommy, raising a perfectly-arched eyebrow. 

 

He opened his mouth to ask for a beer, just something to hold while he socialized until he either found someone to go home with or deemed it time to leave. Before he could get out more than the first syllable, though, Quire opened his mouth. “Illyana, babe, get me two strawberry daiquiris? She nodded, turning around, and uire turned to Tommy. “You like those, yeah?” 

 

Tommy shrugged, a half-assed up-down motion with one shoulder. “Who doesn’t?” Quire smirked, nodding, as if he had just passed a test. “You here with someone, or…” Quire trailed off. 

 

It took Tommy a second to realize that Quire was hitting on him, which took him aback a little. “Nah. I’m single.” The bartender- Illyana, Quentin had called her- clicked the drinks down on the counter, before turning around to talk to a woman with wavy brown hair, wearing a loud purple-and-yellow dress. 

 

“Me too,” Quire said, taking a drink. “You guys were great up there,” Tommy added, trying to keep the conversation going. 

 

“Thanks, man. You been to our shows before?” It was an oddly honest inquiry, given all of Quire’s bravado. “No. This was actually the first time I’ve heard you guys.” He took a drink, punctuating his sentence; it was delicious. 

 

“You come to this place a lot?” asked Quire. Tommy shook his head. “First time, actually. My friend wanted me to come tonight, he likes you guys, but he ran off with some emo dude wearing green.” Tommy laughed softly, and Quentin nodded. “Sounds like Idie after every show.” He paused for a second. “And me, if I’m being honest.” He grinned. 

 

“I feel ya. He deserves it, though, y’know? He just came out as bi, so he’s making up for, like, years of wasted dick opportunities, I guess.” Quentin snorted, and Tommy warmed at having made him laugh so much. He didn’t really want to contemplate what that meant at the moment.

 

Quire laid a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “You wanna go get high, or something?” Yeah, Tommy wanted to do something, alright. He shrugged, rising. “Sure.” 

 

Quire led him backstage. The music was faded here, the drums and bass from the band currently playing reverberating into his core, but the actual sound was muted. 

 

Quire rummaged around the room as he talked. “So, this friend of yours, you and he…” He turned to Tommy, pointing from him to the empty air beside of Tommy. He caught the drift. 

“Oh, no, it’s… I’m not his type, you know?” Quire smirked, not unkindly. “What is his type? Because if it doesn’t include you, it seems like shitty taste.” Tommy was probably blushing. Shit. “Oh, you know… Good guys.” He rolled his eyes. 

 

Quire was standing next to him now, their faces so close he could make out the black roots of the freshly-dyed hair, one hand on Tommy’s lower back. 

 

“And how about your type?” Quire’s voice was low, almost a growl, and he moved one hand under the back of Tommy’s shirt. Tommy let out a shuddery breath. For once in his life, he didn’t have a witty retort. Instead, he did what he did best, he acted without thinking first, and moved forward to meet Quire’s lips with his own. 

  
It looked like him and David would both have hickies in hard-to-explain places the next morning. 


End file.
